


Raw Honey

by magisterpavus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Kerberos Mission, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Keith (Voltron), Reunion Sex, Reunions, Self-Esteem Issues, Touch-Starved, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 09:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13164372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: Keith has often dreamed of miracles, but he never dreamed they would come true.That’s why, when he sees Shiro lying on the cold white table before him, he thinks at first he must be dreaming.





	Raw Honey

**Author's Note:**

> this is a sequel to [rain, rain, go away](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11947680), but it's not necessary to read that one to understand this one...but it is the origin of the honey metaphor~
> 
> this is for the dear @archaicsextoy. 
> 
> support me on tumblr [@saltyshiro](http://saltyshiro.tumblr.com/)

Keith has often dreamed of miracles, but he never dreamed they would come true.

That’s why, when he sees Shiro lying on the cold white table before him, he thinks at first he must be dreaming. 

It’s been a year since he saw Shiro in the flesh, and it doesn’t feel quite real, even when he reaches out to turn Shiro’s face towards him and, for the first time in months, Shiro doesn’t slip away like smoke through his fingers. Shiro _stays._

And then the Garrison cadets burst into the room and the sense of unreality skyrockets, and Keith feels giddy – it’s the feeling one gets in a particularly fantastic dream from which you know you’ll wake eventually, but which you’re determined to enjoy for as long as it lasts. Keith notes, distantly, that this is the most vivid dream that he’s ever had, especially when his hoverbike races across the dark desert and careens over a cliff. You can’t die in dreams, and they don’t die then – Keith knew they wouldn’t. Keith’s heart is racing by the time they reach his shack, and he doesn’t want the cadets there anymore but he also knows there’s nowhere else for them to go.

They’re full of questions but he has no answers – he only has Shiro; and it is only then, when he is struggling to drag a still-unconscious Shiro to his bed, sagging under his weight but gritting his teeth in determination and ignoring the cadets’ offers to help, that Keith realizes he isn’t dreaming. And when he at last gets Shiro onto the bed, all he can do is stare. The cadets, seeming to realize this moment isn’t for them, hastily retreat into the main room. Keith’s bedroom is tiny, and it seems the walls are closing in on him and Shiro the longer he stares. 

This isn’t the Shiro who left for Kerberos – that Shiro was smiling and glowing with health, black hair soft against Keith’s fingertips when he’d stolen a final kiss before the launch. This Shiro looks much, much older – his skin pale to the point of sallow, his nose marred by a faded scar across the bridge, the forelock in his hair white and shaggy, greasy when Keith touches it. He is wearing strange clothes, purple and black, which are ragged and torn. And the more Keith looks, the more his gut twists.

Shiro was tall and broad before he left, but now he’s even moreso, and it isn’t unappealing – far from it – but the implications are troubling. Shiro was in _space_ , and astronauts are supposed to waste away, not bulk up on muscle and...scars. Keith has an awful suspicion that there are more scars than the one on his nose, a suspicion made worse by the sight of Shiro’s right arm – it’s metal. Some kind of highly advanced prosthetic that doesn’t look like anything Keith’s ever seen before, cool to the touch but not as hard and inflexible as metal should be. And he looks at Shiro and wonders what the _hell_ happened to him in the far reaches of the solar system, or maybe even beyond that.

And he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand anything except the one thing that matters – Shiro is alive. And right now, Keith is content to know only that. He vaguely hopes the cadets don’t rob what little he has as he climbs into bed with Shiro and tucks himself to his side, but in all honesty he doesn’t care, because none of those things matter compared to Shiro. And Keith has him right here.

As Keith falls asleep with Shiro he remembers that last night they spent together, almost a year to the day, when Keith had thought of the eternal honey in ancient pyramid tombs, unexpired even when archaeologists found it thousands of years later. He had hoped, in his naivety and idealism, that he and Shiro might be just like that; that they might never lose what made them so sweet together, the Garrison golden boys, as golden as new honey. Keith had been so full of hope then, clinging to every word Shiro said as if it were religion, a holy book spilled straight from Takashi Shirogane’s lips.

Because Shiro had been like honey, even when Keith hadn’t – endlessly perfect, to the point where it had seemed impossible that anything bad could ever happen to Shiro, even in the cold dark lonely vacuum of space. It seemed impossible that he could expire. And so when Keith had heard the news – heard it the same way everyone else had, on a flickering TV screen, which somehow just added insult to injury – it had felt like an immutable universal law had been broken. He could not imagine Shiro dead; the two words clashed against each other in his mind and would not mix, like oil and water. 

And when Iverson had called Keith into his office, said, _There has been a great tragedy...know you were close...pilot error,_ Keith said, _No,_ and Iverson said, _Excuse me, cadet?_ and Keith said, _There was no pilot error; Shiro doesn’t make pilot errors; Shiro is a perfect pilot and you fucking know it, don’t lie to me._

And he had believed that, believed it so wholeheartedly that he’d gotten kicked out of the Garrison for it – for searching for the truth, because the truth was not _pilot error,_ and never would be. 

But now, with a sliver of moonlight casting over him through the makeshift curtains, Keith sees Shiro is not perfect, and he is not untouchable, and he does not have a halo around his head protecting him from all harm as Keith had once so foolishly imagined. Shiro has been hurt, and changed, and perhaps even broken; though the very thought is terrifying to Keith. 

He wonders what Shiro will be like when he wakes up; if he wakes up. Keith presses his face to Shiro’s neck and tries to smell a hint of honey on his skin.

*

Keith awakes abruptly in the night to a low groan in his ear, a distinctly desperate noise that makes him go still. There are cold hands dipping under the hem of his shirt, and Keith’s breath hitches, eyes fluttering open, and Shiro is staring at him in a dazed and disbelieving sort of way; as if Keith is a desert mirage liable to vanish at any second. But Keith is flesh and blood, and for once so is Shiro, and when Shiro whispers, “Keith?” in a voice so small and uncertain that Keith’s heart hurts at the sound, Keith closes the space between them and kisses him firmly.

Shiro responds with the overeager desperation of someone who has been starved of touch for too long, and Keith’s heart hurts all the more because of it, and he thinks, nonsensically, _I am here now, I will take care of you, I will touch you, god, please let me touch you._

And Shiro lets him, he does more than let him; he bites at Keith’s lips and presses him down onto the bed and ruts against him in uneven, shallow thrusts that he cannot seem to control. Keith gasps, louder when Shiro fumbles to get his shirt up and over his head, sliding his hands all across Keith’s hips, his belly, his chest, and Keith notes that the metal hand does not feel so different after all, and he wonders how much Shiro can feel with it. 

Keith grabs the metal wrist and Shiro goes still, and Keith lifts his metal fingers to his lips and Shiro recoils, shaking his head and making a piteous sound, wrenching his hand out of Keith’s grasp. Keith feels chastized, and confused, and concerned, and then warm when Shiro kisses him again, softer, as if to make up for it. And Shiro cards his fingers through Keith’s hair, which has grown out since he left, longer than Garrison regulation permits, and whispers, “Keith, Keith, _Keith,_ ” like he has forgotten all other words. 

Dizzily, Keith thinks that will certainly be a barrier to overcome, but he can work with it.

Shiro moves faster, shifting and shuddering like he is trying to find the right angle, and Keith realizes Shiro is still fully clothed and tries to reach for his shirt but Shiro pins Keith’s wrists to the pillow instead. Keith cannot find it in himself to protest, especially not when Shiro’s mouth traces down over his neck, sucking and biting and kissing afterwards, and Keith grabs at his ass and pulls Shiro against him and _there_ is the angle Shiro was looking for, made better when Keith hitches a leg around his waist and Shiro arches atop him. 

Keith wants to see Shiro’s body but Shiro will not let him, and it makes Keith uneasy – not for his sake, but for Shiro’s. _What have they done to you?_ he thinks as he cups Shiro’s face, rough with stubble, and brushes their lips together again and again, soft as butterfly wings. And Shiro sighs into his mouth, holding Keith so tight in his arms, and grinds against him once, twice, and comes. He crumples down as he does so, like a puppet with cut strings, and Keith is there to catch him against his chest, and hold him as he shakes.

And then Shiro is sliding down his body, and Keith’s hips jerk up in surprise when Shiro exhales over his half-undone pants, and he slaps a hand over his mouth to conceal his helpless moan when Shiro’s mouth covers his cock, warm and wet and sloppy. Keith thinks of the first time they did this, against Shiro’s desk in his room with their uniforms rumpled and Shiro down on his knees; and he thinks of passing by that room later, and seeing it had been already taken by another officer, just like that. The officer had smiled at him in a cautious sort of way and asked what he was doing there, being a cadet and all. Keith had replied, “I won’t be, soon,” and the officer had congratulated him, bemused, but he had missed Keith’s meaning entirely. 

A week later, Keith wasn’t a cadet anymore, and he certainly wasn’t an officer, though Shiro said he should be.

Keith comes down Shiro’s throat quickly. Shiro is not the only touch-starved one. 

They are a mess, afterwards. Shiro seems to realize this, fully clothed as he is, and pulls away, gaze downcast as if guilty. Keith will not allow that, and reaches for him, and whispers, “Shower.” Shiro hesitates, then nods jerkily, but Keith does not think Shiro expects Keith to accompany him. He does. He is not letting Shiro out of his sight for a while.

Keith’s bathroom is small and dingy, but even in the poor light Keith can see how uncomfortable Shiro is. Keith strips his clothes off, hoping to put him more at ease in his own skin, but Shiro just curls further into himself. Keith frowns, and touches Shiro’s face. Standing, like this, he realizes they are closer in height than they were when Shiro left. And yet Shiro seems twice as broad, looming over him, a stranger. He flinches when Keith reaches out to pull off his shirt, and Keith stops.

“You need to take these off to shower,” Keith tells him quietly.

Shiro nods, swallows. He looks about as eager to do so as if Keith had asked him to wring his own neck. 

Keith says, “Shiro, I don’t know what happened to you, but it won’t change how I think of you.”

This is not entirely true – Keith’s perfect image of Shiro has shattered, but he thinks that’s probably for the best. Even if honey can last for thousands of years, it does not mean you should eat it. Eternal things may last forever, but they do not remain as they always were – sweet but not as sweet, golden but not as bright. 

Before he and Shiro had become friends, Keith had always thought he would be a coffee drinker. Black coffee, nothing added – that was the way Keith liked it, too. But Shiro liked – likes, he reminds himself, _Shiro is alive_ – tea, not coffee. Green tea with honey, no less.

Keith had been surprised by this at first, but the more he got to know Shiro, the more it made sense. 

He had taken to drinking tea instead of coffee after Kerberos. Black tea with no honey as a compromise, but he’d bought a jar of honey anyway. One of the cheap plastic bears – Shiro preferred _agave_ , and apparently that grows right here in the desert, but Keith kinda doubts it considering the hefty price tag. Anyway, the honey bear had stayed up on its shelf for months more or less untouched, until in a moment of weakness Keith had snatched it down and poured himself a spoonful.

Or tried to – the honey had crystallized and darkened all around the lid, crunching unpleasantly and crumbling away into brownish sugary fragments all over the table, and the crystals had clogged the bottle so badly that he couldn’t get even a single drop out, if any was even left.

Honey wasn’t ever supposed to go bad, but Keith’s had. 

Struck by the sudden and awful urge to cry, he’d angrily snapped the stupid lid shut and tossed it into the trash as hard as he could. He hoped it broke.

It had only been later, after he had actually cried – which he had only allowed himself to do three times since receiving the news – that he had reluctantly fished the honey out of the trash, because he did not like to waste things, and anyway the honey bear reminded him of Shiro, and it was a good small reminder, because reminders that were too big hurt too much. Keith had tried to watch that documentary he and Shiro had seen together, about Ancient Egypt and its ancient tomb honey, but that hadn’t gone very well, as it had marked the second time he cried.

Shiro is looking at him like he is about to cry now, and Keith does not know what he will do if Shiro cries. Probably cry with him, which will not help anyone.

“It’s bad, Keith,” he whispers, but he takes his shirt off, and he struggles to get the tight, sweat-soaked fabric off, and fumbles with his pants, and Keith would help him but his mouth has gone dry and he can’t stop staring at the unfamiliar mess of Shiro’s body, a patchwork of scars overlaying bulging muscle that wasn’t there before.

Shiro doesn’t say anything when he’s bare, and does not meet Keith’s searching gaze.

“Shiro,” Keith says, pleads, “I never stopped loving you.”

Shiro sunders before him; his shoulders slump and his head jerks up, eyes wide, and Keith repeats, _“Never,”_ and Shiro’s wide eyes do fill with tears then. Keith herds him into the shower before they can fall, but he tastes the salt when he leans in to kiss Shiro’s cheek.

The shower’s water pressure leaves much to be desired, but Shiro groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. Keith wonders how long it’s been since he had a proper shower; but he won’t ask. Shiro is vulnerable enough as it is, on the verge of crumbling – Keith can feel it in the air, a tension like the electricity just before a storm.

“Keith, I’m not the same person anymore,” Shiro tries, his voice blurred by the water, but Keith shakes his head and kisses him on the mouth and presses him gently to the cracked tile wall. “I’ve done terrible things,” Shiro gasps in between kisses, “I hurt people, I – I _killed_ people, Keith, _listen to me!_ ”

“I’m listening,” Keith promises, taking a step back to grab a washcloth and pour soap onto it while Shiro watches him like a cornered animal, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His cock, still messy, is stirring anew against his thigh. Keith frowns at it, then at Shiro, whose face is red with shame. “How long?” Keith asks, straight to the point, and Shiro looks horrified.

“A – a year, Keith, I wouldn’t – there’s only you, there’s only ever been you,” he stammers, and Keith realizes he’s misunderstood.

“Hey, no,” Keith murmurs, cupping his face and touching the cloth carefully to his chest, “not what I meant. I just...how long since anyone touched you?” He runs the cloth slowly, gently down Shiro’s body, and Shiro shudders, pupils blown wide. “Like this.”

“A year,” Shiro whispers again, and swallows hard. “I was – I was in a cell, alone, there was nobody else – no other humans,” he hiccups out a sob when Keith embraces him, resting his head on Shiro’s shoulder as Shiro clutches weakly back at him. Keith doesn’t ask about what happened to the Holts – he doesn’t think he wants to know. “I never thought I would get to have this again,” Shiro breathes, words almost lost in Keith’s hair. “Never thought I would get to have you again...never…”

“I thought you were dead,” Keith tells him, because with his face pressed to Shiro’s skin, hearing the pound of his heart under the pound of the spray, he is no longer able to hold back the emotion choking him, tangling in his chest. “Everyone thought you were dead.”

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro whispers, and strokes Keith’s hair like he can’t quite believe it’s real, careful and slow. “I’m not dead.”

_Somehow,_ Keith thinks, _Shiro knew I needed to hear that_. Shiro was always so good about knowing those kinds of things, and some of the snarls in his chest untangle; maybe Shiro is not so different after all. 

Then Shiro says, “You left the Garrison.”

Keith doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t want to see the disappointment in Shiro’s face. “I was kicked out,” he says.

Shiro sucks in a sharp breath. “Not because of me,” he says, but it is more a plea than anything else.

“No,” Keith agrees. “Because of me. Because I knew they were hiding something –”

“Keith,” Shiro says, choked.

“Because they said it was a _pilot error_ ,” Keith bites out, shaking his head furiously, “and I told them that was bullshit, I told them you would never make a pilot error like that and I was right, I knew they were wrong about you.”

“Keith,” Shiro says again, so sad it is tangible.

“Don’t,” Keith retorts, and this time he does lift his head, glares up at him defiantly. “Don’t tell me I should I have stayed; I know that.”

“The Garrison was your dream, it was your future,” Shiro starts, but Keith is bubbling up with a year of repressed grief and Shiro doesn’t stand a chance.

“ _You_ were my future!” Keith snaps, and Shiro looks stricken. “You promised,” Keith says, and he’s crying now, too, and see, he knew this would happen, fuck. “You promised we’d have a future together when you came back. You said I’d be your – your –”

“Boyfriend in space?” Shiro finishes, and he’s smiling, though it looks likely to splinter at any second. 

“You remembered,” Keith manages, and tries to wipe at his eyes, but Shiro cups his face with the metal hand and holds his hand with the flesh one. 

“Keith, I’m so sorry,” Shiro says, and Keith wants to scream. 

“It wasn’t your fault –”

“I’m so fucking selfish, Keith,” Shiro breathes, and leans in to kiss his lips, his cheek, his jaw, his throat. “You were going to be the Garrison’s best – you would have been, don’t look at me like that, you were better than the whole lot of them and you know it. You would have been better than me, right now, if you’d stayed.”

“Stop,” Keith whispers, hurt and chagrined because it felt like a piece of him had been ripped away when they’d discharged him, almost as bad as it felt to lose Shiro; does Shiro not know that? Does he think Keith just got himself expelled on a whim, and not because he knew they’d wrongly accused Shiro of a mistake he did not make?

“But you didn’t, because I wanted you, Garrison or not,” Shiro says, brow creased. “I shouldn’t have said it, I shouldn’t have promised you anything. I shouldn’t have tied you to me, Keith. I should have ended it that night, before I left, I should have told you to stop seeing me before everything went so wrong, because maybe then you would still be there, you would still have something other than me left, because Keith, you don’t want me anymore, trust me.”

Keith’s nails bite into Shiro’s shoulders as he jerks out of his grasp and holds Shiro in place, and Shiro’s not the only one who’s gotten stronger, and Keith wants him to know that. “No,” Keith whispers fiercely, “you trust me when I say that I will always want you, and you once told me I was the best thing that ever happened to you, and I may not have believed that then, but Shiro, you are the best thing that ever happened to me. And the worst.”

Shiro flinches. “You deserve so much better,” he says, turning his face away.

“You’re the only one who thinks so,” Keith replies, and Shiro’s gaze flickers back up to him, uncertain. “You’re the only one who’s ever thought so, Shiro. You’re the only one who ever thought I deserved anything better than what I fucking got in life, and that made all the difference.”

“But I hurt you,” Shiro says, and his voice is raw and painful like an open wound.

“You’ve never hurt me,” Keith tells him, as honest as he can be. “I did that all to myself. And I think you’re doing the same thing to yourself right now. Don’t, Shiro. Don’t hurt yourself because of me, because I’m right here, and I’m telling you that I love you, even if you don’t.”

Shiro slumps against the wall. “I missed you,” he whispers, “so fucking much.”

“You are not a burden,” Keith tells him, soft and secretive as Shiro told him a year ago, hands framing Shiro’s face. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Shiro.” 

“You still want a future with me,” Shiro murmurs, equal parts disbelieving and awed.

“Yes,” Keith says. “Together. You and me. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, and laughs like it’s been ripped out of him, and it’s the most beautiful sound Keith’s ever heard.

*

They are quiet for the rest of the shower and Shiro lets Keith clean him off with a tenderness that has always come easily to Keith where Shiro is involved; even if he is rough and fumbling with most everything else in his life, he has always tried to treat Shiro with the same gentle compassion Shiro has given him.

Especially now, when Shiro is more delicate than ever before despite being much physically stronger. The word “battle-hardened” comes to mind, and at first Keith finds it silly, but the more he thinks about it...it seems to fit. Shiro flinches at loud sounds and sudden movements, he seems afraid to touch Keith, and when he does it is with hesitance and care. His musculature is consistent with that of a warrior’s, Keith thinks – well-rounded, strong arms and legs and torso, and yet under all the muscle Shiro is lean, there seems to be not an ounce of fat on him. He certainly is not healthy, judging by the pallor of his skin and the circles under his eyes. Shiro was softer, before, but now he is hard, forced to be, Keith thinks. Whatever Shiro has been doing in the past year, it was not pleasant, and it was not easy work.

Shiro’s hands are different, too – besides the obvious difference of one being metal, the skin of Shiro’s left palm is rough and calloused in a way it hadn’t been before. Keith kisses the callouses later, after they are both dried off and snuggled in bed together. Keith does not ask questions; he trusts Shiro to tell him what he can bear to tell when he is ready to do so. He strokes Shiro’s hair, plays with the white forelock, and Shiro laughs again, soft and rasping — Keith thinks Shiro needs to relearn how to make that sound, and Keith is more than willing to help him do so.

Keith almost laughs to himself at the thought of Shiro thinking Keith would not want him anymore. Keith has always wanted Shiro more than he should. Maybe Shiro has done terrible things. Maybe Shiro has changed. But that night, in Keith’s arms, Shiro feels the same as he did a year ago. And for the first time since Shiro left, Keith feels like he’s home.

*

“Tea?”

Shiro looks at him in surprise. The golden light of dawn casts over him from the small kitchen window, and in that moment he looks much more like the Shiro that Keith knew. The sun has a way of making people look more alive, and it paints Shiro’s pale skin in warmer, healthier, more familiar tones - not so different from the color of honey, Keith thinks.

“You drink tea, now?” Shiro rests his chin on his metal hand and looks Keith up and down. “So I have been a good influence on you after all.” He’s joking, and Keith rolls his eyes.

“I’m blaming you for my stained teeth,” Keith retorts, and grabs mugs for both of them. Shiro watches with mild horror and disgust as Keith fills them with tap water and shoves them both into the microwave.

“ _Keith_ , how could you,” Shiro exclaims, scandalized. “I need to get you a proper tea kettle.”

“Microwaves are mankind’s best invention,” Keith declares, pulling the mugs full of hot microwaved water out and tossing a bag of black tea in his, jasmine green for Shiro. 

“Bagged tea,” Shiro bemoans, pitting his head in his hands in mock despair. “How do you live like this?”

“I’d rather not waste my limited amount of funds on fancy loose leaf,” Keith snorts, handing Shiro his mug. “This gets the job done just fine.” Shiro opens his mouth to deliver another bit of snark, but stops when his hands close around the warm mug and the smell of the tea wafts up to his face, wreathing it in steam.

Keith watches him with agonizing, wonderful fondness. Shiro’s eyes flutter shut as he inhales the scent, and when his eyes open again they are calmer, untroubled for the first time since he’s returned. Then Shiro’s gaze drifts to the honey jar on its shelf, and his eyes light up. He stands and reaches for it, and Keith hates to break the news to him, but he says, “That honey’s no good anymore.”

Shiro glances at him over his shoulder and smiles. “Don’t you remember? Honey never expires.”

Of course Keith remembers. All he remembered for a long time was that stupid honey thing, because in the end it was easier to think of that than of Shiro’s face. But now, inexorably, the two of them have collided, as Shiro stands with his silly lopsided smile that Keith has missed so much and the jar of old honey. 

Shiro opens the jar, and grabs a knife to pry the dark crystallized honey off the lid, and eats one of the pieces and grins at the simple delight of sugar. He hands Keith a piece, and Keith takes it, and somehow sweetness explodes against his tongue, and Keith realizes he was wrong. The honey never went bad, just like he and Shiro never did. It changed, sure, and maybe it’s not as perfectly appealing as it once was – but at its essence, it’s the same, and it’s just as good as ever. 

Eventually Shiro gets through the crystals to the honey, and pours it into his tea, the sunlight illuminating the golden sugar while it swirls around in his mug. “See?” Shiro says. “It was good all along.”

Keith never takes honey with his tea, but he does then, and he swears he’s never tasted anything better.


End file.
